


Lost & Found

by Mageless



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-05-07 06:37:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mageless/pseuds/Mageless
Summary: When Crowley lost Aziraphale it broke him. One moment they were sipping well aged wine in the back room, the next his friend was gone. He looked. Of course he looked, but years and years passed and all he heard was the same words over and over and over again and they cut into him like knives, stung like holy water. Missing. Gone. Dead. Not just discorporated. Dead.So he did what he had to do. He did his job. He tempted and caused mayhem and when it hurt too much to be on earth anymore he went back to hell, a crossroads demon. The BEST crossroads demon.Until one day the Winchester boys had him locked in their super secret torture room, and he hears a familiar voice behind the doors, a voice that has him screaming, crying, begging them to open up.





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Weeell. The main plot for my other work should be done in a few chapters and this one's been stuck on my brain so I might as well push the first chapter out. Angels & Demons & Timelords will get priority though until it's finished and I'll update this when I feel the mood for it. As ever if you ever see any plot holes, typo's, mistakes or think there's something I could improve just comment & I'll get round to it :)
> 
> Oh, also I know there's a massive difference between Crowley's GO and Spn backstory so Imma go ahead and pretend his supernatural backstory doesn't actually exist so I can write this *thumbs up*

Sometimes, on a long walk home from the Ritz or a lonely stroll through St. James's park, but particularly when he walked past a church or spoke to one of his brothers it would hit Aziraphale, what he'd become. He had _tempted_ , in the name of the devil. He partook in gluttony, greed, even a little vanity when it came to his suits. Worst of all he liked it. Not the tempting, mind, but he wasn't particularly disgusted by it, and he liked the arrangement, not that he'd ever admit it to Crowley, and Crowley, foul demon that he was, was the entire problem, really. From the moment they'd stood on that wall the demon had tempted him. Tempted him with food and wine, kindness and friendship. It was the cruellest temptation there was. He loved it. Loved that feeling Crowley gave him, that he was safe, that he was protected. That he didn't need a sword, just a lanky old friend and a charming old Bentley racing impossibly fast down  _very_ busy roads. He loved Crowley, he realised, just at the moment that he heard footfalls behind him and smelled demon, his demon. It was an ancient love, comfortable. Terrifying. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it yet. Was it friendship? Or was it something more?

They were the grey, he decided. The kind, thoughtful demon who bought him crepes on warm Sunday afternoon and the disgrace of an angel, who gave away the flaming sword God bequeathed him and caused the first death, and the second, and the third, and every last one after that. They were muddling in the middle of the morality of the cosmos, just trying to figure things out.  _How human._

_\--_

At the present point in time, Crowley was trying to figure out how to cook an omelette, and failing. Aziraphale had been busy when he broke in (even though he had a key he liked to at least feel a  _little_ like the dark, mischievous demon he was supposed to be) so he'd decided to help himself to some of the new books, which turned out to be just the one new book, the diary of a mister Luther, dated somewhere in the 1500's. Interesting man, once he learned how to loosen up a bit. He supposed he couldn't ask for much, since the last time he'd been over was yesterday, so he made his way the the kitchen instead. That was _always_ stocked. Although Crowley had never learned to cook (since he could impress the angel just as easily with a bought pastry than a self made one so long as it tasted good) there were a few recipes that had wiggled their way into his mind. He'd thought that something as simple as an omelette had been among them, but apparently not. Or maybe it was something else, because every time he cracked an egg Crowley got the urge to crush it in his hands. Not from rage, no. From fear. He was afraid, terrified and he didn't even know why.

"Angel?!" He shouted, the slightest strain of panic in his voice. There was no response, but that was okay. The angel was doing his 'accounts', whatever they were, and they confused him ever so much so maybe he was just concentrating really, really hard and didn't hear his friend almost screaming in the next room. Crowley was running, now, his eyes scanning over the chair where Aziraphale should be, the mess of paper and books and knick knacks on the desk, the emptiness of it all that resonated with the nausea in his stomach. Now he knew what had set him off, made him worry. He'd smelt angel. Not his angel, but something sharper, crueller, steelier and holier and as horrid to him as the fourteenth century in an entirely different way. He kept shouting,  _Angel, Angel,_ ** _Angel,_** over and over again and begging for a response. All there was was silence, and when he got back to the kitchen to turn the fire alarm off, the eggs were burnt black. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie dokie. Not sure if I'll go back and change it later but I don't think I'm gonna write up most of the Crowley episodes because a) that's a lot of reading and writing to do and b) thats not what I wanna focus on. If I've screwed up anywhere just lob and comment down there & I'll get round to it as ever :P Now to the chapter!

Loss wasn't a blade, not after a year or two. Instead it became a poison, eating away at you. Without Aziraphale to anchor him Crowley was  _unhinged._ He couldn't focus right, couldn't even feel right. Emotion's came hard and fast and violent, none of them good. What he and the angel had... It was eternal. He could barely remember life without him, almost didn't want to. Everything he felt about the angel was broken, now. Crepes and wine and everything else just reminded him that he was  _alone_ , and there was no one to forgive him, to  _love_ him anymore. The more the emotions came at him, the more he learnt to throw them away, until one day he was just a dull, aching pain with the occasional sharp, blazing anger inside him.

It made him very good at his job.

Well, it made him worse, actually, mostly because he just did not care anymore. No more "big picture" goals, no more M25's. He did what he was told, seduced a few priests, corrupted a few politicians, nothing more nothing less, because for some forsaken reason he didn't want to die just yet. Not when he hadn't found his angel yet, and he was looking, like it was the only important thing on earth, which for him it was. He made contacts, deals, temptations, whatever it took to get whatever powerful people he could by his side and he set them all looking for his friend. His  _best_ friend. Every time a white haired, too kind for his own good librarian showed up on earth Crowley was there, only to get more and more broken and disappointed with the results. It was never Aziraphale, always someone else. Always someone who he couldn't care less for, always someone he damn wish died instead.  _Disappeared instead._ Aziraphale wasn't dead.

One year later he was still looking, watching over all their favourite restaurants, the old haunts.

Two years later he started asking heaven what they did to his angel. They never answered.

He slept through years three and four, but got a message back number five. "He was a traitor, fallen. Befriending a demon. He was dealt with accordingly." Michael, all steely and righteous. Bastard. But 'dealt with' didn't mean dead. Aziraphale could be fallen, could be... tortured. Discorporated maybe. Was that better than dead? He picked up the search, widening the parameters, giving up on human contacts and searching with his demonic abilities instead. Nobody else would be able to find him, just Crowley, and he had to look.

Year ten. He stopped looking, with his senses anyway.

He couldn't stay on earth, not anymore. There wasn't enough alcohol in Russia to dull that pain. He'd been discorporated twice in the process, and hell wasn't happy he kept possessing people. They asked him to come back, and he'd snarked at first (not to satan directly), but nothing had kept him staying. He took one last look in the mirror, before he left. His new body was so much different from his original one, the one he'd been  _Aziraphale's_ in. This one was short, blonde, unsuspecting but with a hidden shrewdness about it he supposed. He guessed that it suited what he was, now. A crossroad's demon, lowly, out of the limelight. He could just be at peace, look for his angel with his deals if he could stomach it. The biggest difference was the eyes: dark blue, almost black. Soulless, which didn't seem like much for a demon but... They were human, except for when they went a deep, blood red, just as rare as his old snake eyes but so much crueller. _He_ wouldn't like these eyes. If these things were meant to be the windows to the soul, what did that say about him? 

Turned out, there were politics in hell. Their were  _sides_ for some reason, and apparently he had to pick them. Logic dictated he pick lucifer, lord of the pit, because well he was  _lord_ for a damned good reason, but he didn't care about logic much, and Lilith seemed as interesting as anyone else if a little creepy, but wasn't he supposed to like creepy? He wasn't sure. Still, he slowly began to like the rhythm of it, the deals. These people were idiots, trading eternity in hell for money, fame, a few inches below the belt. Was it really worth it? More and more and more years past and the angel was just a faint, distant memory now. The pain only hit him when some stupid little reminder popped up, which was rare in the tedium of the underworld. He wore out a few more vessels, and it was when he was in the body of a new york literary agent, and tens of years had passed, that something interesting finally happened. The Winchesters. He'd grown more than a little prideful over the years, over the emptiness. He hadn't meant to but his reputation in hell had grown. He stopped being snake of the garden and started being king of the crossroads.The more everyone else forgot the more _he_ forgot too. 

The Winchesters were idiots. Rough, violent idiots. The moose wasn't too bad but the other one, Dean, would sooner shoot something interesting that have a proper conversation with it. Then they'd gotten themselves a pet angel which had seemed promising, but instead of the feathered soldier teaching them sense it had somehow worked the other way around. Castiel had _rebelled_ , which had hurt like a punch in the gut because in his own little ways Aziraphale had rebelled, too. Not in a big, grand demonstration but in little ways. In the distance between them on the couch in the back room and their lunches at the Ritz and in their arrangement, which went against all of his angel's instinct and  _oh_ his angel. He hadn't felt this in years. It twisted in him until he almost threw up. Crowley went through his files, needing something,  _anything_ to shift his focus. A mister Pendleton popped out: homophobic, desperate. The shame would torture him more than the demons would. "Natasha I'm taking over the Pendleton deal." The pretty little thing nodded in fear, her anger at being sidelined less than her desire to live through the experience. Crowley was more ruthless to his own kind than he was to the humans. 

The deal had gone pretty amusingly, even if Mr. Pendleton had been a terrible and only semi-willing kisser. His mood was ruined by the terrible shadow he'd caught himself, though. The young and impertinent Castiel, still not sure what place he fit into in this world, still not admitting the feelings he had for the squirrel. He'd known that they were looking for him, he wasn't stupid, and those eyes... slowly becoming more and more human. He was soft on those eyes. Besides he  _had_ the colt. He'd kept it on side as a sort of contingency if everything went up in flames, metaphorically anyway. 

So he helped them, even when his instincts spoke against it. He gave them the colt (even if he took a few things in return, that was his job after all.)

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I am actually SO angry because I wrote this entire chapter a week ago and then accidentally somehow deleted it I think because it's not here now 0_0. Attempt 2 Ig!

Well, Lucifer wasn't dead. He was in the cage though, which was basically the Alcatraz of the supernatural world. The short and horrible gap between failing to kill Lucifer with the colt -A magical gun made by Samuel Colt with the ability to kill almost anything that goes bump in the night- and actually trapping him in the cage he had originally been brought out of had been hell. Almost literally. The devil had sent his demons to systematically destroy every last part of Crowley's life: His house, his tailor, even a large number of his contacts had suddenly died under "mysterious circumstances". It was infuriating. Becoming king of hell was the only up-side to the whole thing. He did his usual thing, of course. Reminding the demons to contact him if they run into his angel friend, but apart from that he was pretty busy running hell, since he had a much more... hands on approach than his predecessor. It was interesting work, but there was still a part of him that was Crowley, snake of the garden. Tempter. He just needed to tempt something really, and he did have someone specific in mind.

"Are you sure that's why your tempting him, dear? Boredom?" _Shut up. Of course it is._

"Really? You're going this out of your way on young Castiel for such a petty reason?"  _Yes! Now will you shut up!_

"Because  _I_   think that you just want to prove that Castiel isn't me!"  _Shut up Shut up SHUT UP._

"You want him to be tempted! Because I never was! Not completely, anyway."

"WILL YOU SHUT UP! YOU'RE NOT HIM. YOU'RE NOT AZIRAPHALE." Something inside of Crowley snapped, and the figment of his friend standing next to him in his throne room gave a smug smile at actually being acknowledged. He'd almost fell for it, the first time. This... hallucination of his friend. But it wasn't Aziraphale. He could tell it wasn't Aziraphale. Aziraphale wouldn't have forgiven him, wouldn't have even spoken to him. Not after what he'd become.   

"So I'm not him because I've forgiven you? Oh Crowley..." 'Oh Crowley'. The love in those two words almost broke him to pieces. The newly crowned lord of hell put his head in his hands and tried not to cry. When he looked up, Azi- the hallucination was gone. The demons in the room looked at him like he'd gone mad, and his face froze.

"Everybody out. Now." 


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel had been easier to tempt than he'd expected, but then again the man was a bundle of idiocy and good intentions, and that was never a good combination. Once the angel had started his little civil war against Raphael Crowley knew he had him hooked. This was a war of souls and the angel needed all the ammunition he could get. Somehow though he hadn't actually expected this to  _work_. It was almost a little disappointing as he watched the trench coat lie to his friends, pretend to burn his bones and strike him from this mortal coil. Just as infuriating was the angels attachment to the Winchesters, which he wouldn't mind in and of itself but the whole "doing bad things for a good reason" crap was getting on his nerves. When the angel finally broke their agreement and stole all the souls from purgatory to be the new god, he almost wasn't surprised. Almost. Not gonna lie, it was a bit of a shocker, but then again he'd gone from a lowly demon on earth to the lord of hell, who at any time could possibly be killed by two random boys who were maybe one percent of his age that had  _already_ trapped the devil and locked him away. Everything surprised him at this point, to the point that 'surprising' was the new normal. Still... there was something wrong, there. Like all that power wasn't quite his, and if the pressure got any worse he'd spring a leak, and then of course that leak had came in the form of 'leviathan', that horrible, black goo, with their horrible grey goo, that honestly just made Crowley thankful that he didn't need to eat food to survive. So now, Crowley had to pick a side. Again. It was something that he was just tired of doing. Heaven or hell? Lillith or Lucifer?  _Winchesters_ or Lucifer? At the end of the day there was only one thing Crowley was sure of. He was on  _his_ side. Screw everyone else. Any following choice after that was just that of what benefited most. The leviathans might have seemed like a good choice, but he didn't trust anyone who loved signing contracts just as much as he did, and he certainly didn't like the way they looked down upon demons. Looked down on him. And so he picked the side that never seemed to lose, the Winchesters. 

"Oh please, you just don't want to admit you're soft on the two gentlemen." 

"Oh shut up, Aziraphale. Moose and Squirrel are many things, but they're not gentlemen." 

"If you say so!~"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. I've actually written three separate versions of this and had errors actually uploading it every, single, time. *cries*.

It had been like this ever since Crowley had had the unfortunate luck of meeting the young angel Castiel. That... rebellious little thing had awoken something in him. A memory he had been suppressing for so long that it had come back like the rumbling of thunder, and as painfully as lightening. Ever since then, the... the 'fake', had been worming its way in. Shadows, in busy crowds. That was all that it had been at first. A glimpse of tartan among the masses, a whiff of love and light and warmth. Flashes of that... contentment that being with Aziraphale had always brought him. Then after the colt had failed, when Crowley had been on the run, there'd been a particularly dreadful night where'd he'd started drinking: everything and anything he could. He'd spent the whole night mumbling incoherent apologies to what he'd believed to be a drunken figment, except when he''d woken up it had been in the exact same figments lap, and he'd been quite sober at the time. He'd panicked, of course. Thrown himself to the opposite side of the room in horror, attacked the facsimile of his friend with his words, even his fists. Then, he had cried, as Fauxiraphale smiled patiently, cleaning up the mess he had made.

He'd ignored it, after that. It wasn't that talking to Aziraphale was too painful, even if it did feel like he was being tortured in hell's chambers. Instead, it was too tempting, as ironic as that was. The feeling of talking with his friend again... it was like finding an oasis after almost dying in the desert, and every time he interacted with Az- the figment, even if it was just a glance, a smile, it seemed to give it even more corporeal presence, more power... more credibility. He couldn't let himself give in to that. He couldn't betray his friend like that. Occasionally the angel would get a rise out of him, but otherwise he would remain silent. Right until Castiel had betrayed him. Right before it happened, Aziraphale, the fake anyway, had said something that struck with him. That he was only so concerned with Castiel because he missed his friend. That he was looking for a replacement. He'd shunned the idea at the time, but when Castiel had betrayed him, He'd felt it. Felt that pang again. It wasn't even close to the same: Aziraphale had been his sole friend, his closest ally for thousands of years. Castiel was a grudging frenemy, barely holding off from stabbing that angel blade into his neck, and yet the moment he'd been made aware that the angel had no intention of honouring their agreement he'd materialised two glasses of wine and four bottles, and he and Aziraphale hadn't stopped drinking until all of them were emptied. He'd woken up hungover, and angry. So, so angry. The alliance with Raphael ad been struck soon after. The 'drinking' sessions continued after then. They never spoke, but there was still the faintest sliver of warmth, and after a while they worked in the occasional snippet of conversation. Aziraphale had been the one to draw up the Leviathan deal. He'd always been better at the legalese. Then, all of a sudden the boys had wanted to close the gates. Exile him back into hell. If there was one constant about Crowley, it was that he hated hell. Even when he'd hated earth more. With Fauxiraphale around, he wasn't hating it quite so much. Even if he was hating himself.

The angel tablet had been a bolt from the blue. A compendium of all things feathered, unfriendly and from above. He was surprised he hadn't heard of it in all his years researching where Aziraphale could have gone. Maybe, it could still tell him. Maybe the Tran boy, could still tell him. When it came to getting his friend back, there was nothing Crowley wouldn't do. Fauxiraphale was supportive, of course. It had come to understand that Crowley would never believe that it was truly Aziraphale, no matter what. Not yet. 

"Crowley! You're not really going to kill the boy, are you?!" Fauxiraphale shouted, pacing the room and glancing angrily at his friend. 

"And why not? He'd just one human!" This was ridiculous. He was practically arguing with himself! 

"He's just a child. You don't kill children, Crowley. You never have."

"I never did, Aziraphale. Past tense." He snapped, acid in his voice. "I'm not the same man I was. You should know that." 

The angel made a show of looking him up and down, disappointment in his eyes. "Yes, I suppose so, dear."

"Shut it, Aziraphale."

He killed the boy. He killed many other people, too. Hell would have given him a big ol' thumbs up, in the old days. 

Then, of course, he was captured. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

He should never have gone after Jody, thinking about it. For all the bluff he had made about emotion being the Winchesters weakness, it was also their strength. The fire inside of them... it was what drove them to do the craziest things: to save the world, to save each other. To handcuff him to the squirrel and shoot him up with something that belonged in a vampire, not him. He knew this because he felt it too, long ago. Maybe that was why he hate seeing it so much in others. No matter, soon Crowley would have all the emotion he needed and far more than he wanted, all of it pouring through his veins like the worst high he'd ever had, not that he often did. The final trial... turning a demon human. He wondered what it would feel like. Turns out, not much. At first. Injection number one and the moose pulls the damned (or he supposed sanctified) stuff out of his own veins, straight into his neck. If he was human, he'd have about a billion hygiene issues on his mind. As a demon, he had an equal number of hygiene jokes.  _Hey Aziraphale_ , he thought.  _Didn't you say once that it was really... bad to take a blood type that wasn't your own? Do you think I'll get sick?_ The angel laughed, thinking of the great and mighty Crowley dying to a simple blood transfusion. 

"You don't even have blood Crowley!" The angel admonished. "And besides, both your captor and your vessel have the same blood type. I believe it is called... O negative?" 

"Huh."  _One hell of a coincidence that is._

The Moose was still staring at his, probably waiting for him to drink the cool aid and break down in sobs, but apart from a slight tingle where the pointy end went in, there was nothing. "You're miles out of your league, Moose." Nothing at all. Nothing, nothing,  _nothing_... He wasn't losing his mind at all. It wasn't the 'emotion' that was getting to him. It was the boredom, really. All of the plays he could make could only  _be_ made when the hour was up. For a fairly ancient being, his patience was finite. Fortunately the boy was coming back around for round two. The needle went in and he felt a twinge of... something coiling around his stomach, but then his teeth were forcing their way through the Winchester's skin and all that filled him now was the revolting taste of blood and flesh. The blood especially felt more repulsive than usual, but that was probably because biting wasn't usually in his repertoire. Desperate times.  _Desperate measures._ The boy left to lick (or probably bandage) his wounds, and Crowley spit out a mouthful of the damage he caused into his cupped palm. The punch had been as... unpleasant, as ever, but he was getting all too used to it with that trio around. 

"Miss me deary?" Aziraphale asked, sitting on a section of the floor wherein the dust had miraculously vanished.  _Not now, angel. I'm busy._

"Inferni sectatores, nunc audite regem." He chanted. The spell should be able to get a message out. He tried to stay calm, call for reinforcement, but that twinged was sending his heart rate just the slightest but upwards. 

"For the love of everything, whoever is hearing this. If _anyone_ is hearing this. This is your king, send help immediately." _Send help._ It sounded dreadful to his own ears, let alone his treacherous subjects.  _The things we do for power._

"Do you really care about power, dear?" 

"If I had power, Aziraphale. You wouldn't be gone."

Now, all he could do was wait. 

 


	7. Guess who's back... back again...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back... tell a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back guess who's back guess who's baaaaaack!

When you’re calling for a rescue, you should really make sure that the person who’s rescuing you actually cares enough to keep you alive, because other wise it’s very much a frying pan holy water kind of situation. Abaddon was the holy water. Beautiful, feisty. Great hair and a pain in his ass. The moose saved him and suddenly words were pouring out of his mouth and Crowley couldn’t tell if he was dealing or tempting or doing something else entirely, but it burned in him. It burned and it roared and the blood that was rushing through his skull and pulsing in his ears sounded like his angel. All of that feeling, all of that pain at once. Crowley realised that he’d lost something. Lost it for a while now. Lost hope. The blood brought some of it back, faintly. Reminded him of everything he’d done. If Aziraphale came back… how could he ever forgive him, for what he’d done? The boys plunged him into darkness as his torture and Satan, did they pick the right technique because every single second in that void felt like an eternity, felt like the whispers in his head became louder and louder, his need for Aziraphale, for that feeling of love and care that his angel brought him. Did he even deserve that love, anymore? The oscillation between nothing but his thoughts and the horribly self-sacrificing influence that was the Winchesters was starting to do a number on him, and not in a fun way. Every second Crowley spent festering in the rancid pool of his own emotions was another second his walls crumbled, and his tears almost fell, and the fake Aziraphale whispered soft promises into his ears as he waited to brush them away. Another second he had to pretend that the boys weren’t just moments away from breaking him. 

—

For the boys life was hell, but no more than usual. As far as Dean knew Sam was (slowly) recovering, and he… well he was just peachy. Castiel worked at a gas n sip, a concept that was frankly more horrifying than half the hoards of hell, and they kept what was starting to look like a human blood addict in their basement. All in all, it was actually kind of an improvement, which meant less time running for their lives and more time hunting, doing friends favours and looking into stories. The current trip was one of the latter. They were five hours into what was looking to be a twelve hour drive, and the sound of Sam’s God-damned keyboard was interrupting what was otherwise some sweet fucking music but it was better than driving in silence, especially when there was some ride-along rattling about in his brother’s head. 

“So what we got, Sam?” the tapping stopped for a moment, but only to be replaced by clicking as Sam got all of his thoughts (and tabs) together. 

“Small town called Milford.” Sam explained , deleting some websites, minimising others. “Reported cases of ‘miracles’.” A car blew past them at a speed that was way over the limit, and Dean fetched a chocolate bar out of his pocket, watching it stick to the wrapper as he opened it with a grimace. “We talking ‘angel’ miracles or ‘slightly impressive coincidence miracles?’ More clicks, a few seconds of typing and then some complicated touch pad manoeuvres that reminded Dean why he left all the research to Sam. “Somewhere in the middle… I think.” he muttered, rubbing at what Dean could already tell was a headache forming. His brother was fraying at the seams and there was nothing he could do to help. “It’s not angelic, exactly; it’s too random, but it’s not coincidence either. There’s also a fairly high number of disappearances, considering.” Another headache grunt, and Dean slammed the laptop shut, almost on Sam’s fingers. “Dea-!“ “Get some sleep, sammy.” He interrupted. “You’re exhausted.” The sort-of-friendly giant was too tired to argued, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window, Ezekiel knowing better than to come out. 

 

It was a long drive.


	8. 8

“I could get you out of here, you know?” Aziraphale offered, leaning somehow primly against one of the darkened walls of the bunker, his pale brown suit standing out and yet also strangely fitting in with all of the dust and darkness of the room. Rolling his eyes, Crowley straightened up in his seat, cracking the bones in his neck and rolling out all of the stiffness in his joints, or at least as much as he could having been chained to a desk for what he wasn’t quite sure how long. Weeks? Months? He’d never been very good keeping track of time. “You’re not real.” he muttered, feeling a muscle in his shoulder cramp up where he had previously hadn’t even had muscles to bother about at all, not really. “I’m as real as you perceive me to be!” The false angel reprimanded, making a show of stepping in and out of the circle that helped keep Crowley contained, almost making it into a… what did he used to call it? A gavotte? “Well then you’re demonic then, aren’t you. Bloody useless!” It wasn’t so much of an attack so much as a rejection, an avoidance even. The angel gave him that rare look that seemed to say ‘are you an idiot?’, but with a sort of resigned fondness hidden inside of it, and Crowley’s fingers twitched and curled. Fauxiraphale slowed down his dance, making a show of stepping both into an out of the circle, but it wasn’t that Crowley didn’t notice the action, he just didn’t care. Partly, it was because asking a figment of his own imagination (or what he was slowly coming to believe was some sort of ancient, evil asshole entity or possibly Gabriel, though Crowley wasn’t exactly sure whether or not that was the same thing) for help made him sour, and he didn’t wan’t to betray his angel like that, but also… Crowley’s left arm tingled pleasantly, just a little. Just enough to remind him of the sheer amount of feelings that the Tran boy’s blood bought back to him. If he left… would he still be able to enjoy these highs? The thought scratched its way around at the back of his mind, leaving its marks even as Crowley refused to acknowledge it. The angel wasn’t dancing anymore, just sitting quietly on the floor, watching his… well, watching him think. Resigned to his fate, Crowley sighed. “Would you like to play a round of chess?”


	9. 9

When the boys were young, they had a lot of lessons drilled into them from the other hunters, but there was a few that they had learnt for themselves. One of them, one of the most important, was that no matter how good a hunt seemed to be going, it could go just as bad in a heartbeat. Or in this case, the time it takes to rip a page out of a first edition. They’d tracked the ‘miracles’ to be most potent around the Milford public library, and so Dean was being his charming self, flipping through books like he actually cared about what was on them (to hide the fact he was checking out the hot chick to the left of him, probably not realising he was holding a copy of twilight and she wasn’t an idiot) when his elbow knocked one of the books off of the display shelf, and when he went to grab it… Sam took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose before he even bothered to turn around, the crisp sound of a page tearing sending a twinge of guilt through his heart. The librarian he was talking to gave an alarmed gasp, rushing forward with the kind of speed only something supernatural or **really emotional** could. Briefly, admittedly jokingly, Sam wondered if this was the day his brother died. Then Dean was gone and he felt a different kind of guilt curdling in his gut. There wasn’t even a sound. No rustle of wings, no flash of light. Just one moment Dean was there, and the next he was gone, and all Sam could see was the confused blonde and an upset librarian, holding the torn remains of his book with… tears? in his eyes? Apparently the man had had tunnel vision, because after carefully picking up the mess on the floor he turned around, presumably to scold his brother furiously for damaging public property -although Sam had the feeling that that very much wasn’t the problem- when he realised that Dean was gone, and his neck whipped round to sam so suddenly that the hunter almost got the urge to pull a weapon. 

“Where did he go!” The librarian shouted, his voice sharp enough to give Sam a sense of guilt for Dean’s actions, but mostly he was still just worried, and a little suspicious. Was this man responsible for the disappearance? was he pretending not to know or was it all subconscious?

“I-I don’t know.” Sam tried to make himself as non-threatening as possible, which was usually pretty difficult with his frame but he was manoeuvring his way around it. The librarian certainly didn’t **look** supernatural, in fact the exact opposite. The combination of his soft brown suit, tartan both tie and (previously) amiable manner didn’t exactly blend into the background, but it was human enough. ‘Human enough’ was always a stupid mistake to make on a hunt, but so was threatening or attacking a man in broad daylight. “I could pay you back for the books?” He offered. The librarian deflated, waving a slightly pudgy hand at Sam as he placed the book’s carcass under his desk, with more respect than the brothers would treat a dead body, which… wasn’t actually all that difficult if he thought about it, so he chose not to. “Oh it’s alright.” The man muttered, his slight english accent fading out as he calmed down. “Just please **do** be careful with the books!” Since he didn’t really have much of a choice Sam nodded, however awkwardly and decided to slowly back out of the library, pulling his phone out of his pocket to dial his brother. No answer on the first or second call, but there was a brief pickup on the third before he was disconnected. At least he wasn’t dead. Probably. 

Two hours into panicking and probably a few more away from getting outside help, Dean actually called, from somebody else’s phone. “Meet me at the motel.” He’d snapped. No further information needed, apparently. When Sam actually heard Dean knock and opened the door, he understood why. His brother was dripping wet, covered from head to toe in water to the point that a puddle had formed in the river. Sam tried not to laugh, covering his grin with his hand. “Where did you go?” Apparently, Dean noticed, because the next second Sam received a sopping wet shirt to the face. “Shut up, Sam.” the man grunted, grabbing some clean clothes out of their luggage and going to presumably shower and change. “When I get back, I’m going to shoot that stupid librarian!” He shouted, tossing what seemed to be an extremely waterlogged phone onto the bed. No wonder he didn’t pick up. Picking up a barely-clean motel towel, Sam dried his face, and after that he stocked up as much as possible. Whoever this librarian was, whatever he was, they were sure as hell gonna find out. 


	10. 10

Anthony Fell had worked in the Milford public library for as long as he could remember, and he loved his job for the exact same reason that most of his co-workers had quit it. Nobody read books anymore. The relative empty-ness of the space had allowed the librarian to amass his own, wonderful collection of books, using what little money he had to build himself a little world of first editions and old pages, manuscripts and scrolls. Well, not really scrolls per say, or manuscripts either, but he had managed to get himself a few first editions, which had been quite difficult on his salary. Nevertheless, ever since Mr. Fell had become the sole employee of the Milford Public Library, he had come to consider its contents as his own domain. Since he would only have a handful of visitors a day, he could spend most of it in quiet contemplation of his favourite books. Usually. For the past few weeks however absolutely nothing had been going his way. He had been mugged, his shipments of books had been coming late and this annoying little twerp of a toddler had been coming in all the time, daring to lay his tiny little hands on **his** books! He had gotten chocolate on them! For a brief moment, Mr. Fell had seriously considered lethal force to encourage the libraries ‘no food or drink’ rule. Fortunately the child seemed to have lost interest, since he hadn’t seen the critter in a few days, but as soon as one nuisance left another, larger one popped up! The larger of the two had only come to ask about the ‘miracles’ in town, but the other one... somehow, out of all of the books in the room, that loaf had managed to rip one of his most favourite and almost as badly, he didn’t even stick around to apologise. The man he had spoken to had simply been so kind, he felt terrible that he had to look after that nuisance of a friend. To worsen the whole thing, not even a few hours after both of the men had left and the library was busier than he had ever seen it. Fortunately there wasn’t a crowd of course, just six or seven people, all reading their books or browsing about. Still, he felt unsettled by the lack of his usual peace. Especially when he heard the door chime, indicating the appearance of at least one more guest, and especially when he realised that one of those guests was the accursed man who had ripped his book. 

“Have you come to apologise?” Anthony snapped, almost smashing the book in his hand on the desk before breaking at the last moment and settling for a sharp glare. The taller man had the grace to look sheepish, but the offender himself seemed to barely mind the question. Noticing the man’s wet hair, the librarian couldn’t help but be further incensed. “Now listen here!” he shouted, not truly raising his voice but at least managing to convey his crossness in his tone. “I will not stand for you damaging any more books! If you are not here to read then… then please leave!” They didn’t leave. In fact they did they did the opposite of leave. Both men went from at least tolerable to darn right frightening in barely a second,the both of them drawing guns from their waist with trained precision. When the two men gestured for him to approach them with cold eyes, and Anthony weighed the options of running for his life and obeying quite carefully. The tall one tightened his grip on the trigger, and his body made the decision for him, turning itself around to make a sprint for the fire exit.

Of all the choices Anthony could ever remember making. This one was possibly the worst. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay some people are probably gonna disagree with me making AZF a badass, but I refuse to believe he got that flaming sword for no reason so screw it. He's a badass.

The first thing that Anthony had forgotten when he made a sprint for the fire exit is that during this entire incident, there had been seven other people in the library with him when the intruder had come in. Seven other people who had seen the gun go up, and none of them had made a sound. The second thing he had failed to notice is that whilst the men **had** drawn their guns, they had never aimed them directly at him, but instead behind him, and the third thing Anthony had missed is that for the entire time those people had been in his library, he had never looked a single one of them in the eye. Barely even seen their faces. 

He was looking now, and with a great deal of distress he could see that those eyes he had missed were all a deep, dark, impenetrable black, and the bodies that they were attached to were all lined up in a semi-neat row, blocking his only means of escape. 

“Mr Fell…” The tall one spoke, his tone as calm and patient as he could make it and his gun pointed steadily at the strange, black-eyed men. “You should probably come towards us.” One of the men grinned, and the sight was so bloodthirsty and cruel that the librarian couldn’t helped but take a few faltering steps away from him. “Y-yes. I think you’re quite… quite right.” He backed up at first, holding eye contact with the men and slowly backing up towards what were either his saviours or his executioners or something in between, but the problem with backing up in that you can’t see what’s behind you, and the moment he felt his foot entangle with the leg of a chair, Anthony knew he was done for. The men grinned, their faces feral as they spotted weakness, swooping in for the kill. Then the gunshots sounded out, and he couldn’t even think at all. He expected himself to run at first, that or go into a blind panic, but instead… Instead Anthony found himself putting pressure on the chair leg he had tripped on, snapping it off in his hand and thrusting the thing into one of the men’s chests. His brain was empty and absolutely no clue what was going on, it looked on in horror as the man pulled the wood out of his heart and shook off bullets and just kept moving forward, but his body shifted into some form of stance, staying on the defensive as it dodged and ducked and at some point, probably when the first flash of blinding light occurred as the shorter man stabbed a blade into one of the men, finally killing him, Anthony just started screaming. His entire brain felt like it was on fire, burning and boiling and hurting so much, even as he kicked one of the men over a table and whipped another one over the head with… something. He wasn’t even really sure what anymore.By the time the three of them made their way to the door and Anthony turned the key to lock them inside, tears were running down his cheeks, and the thing was that he didn’t even know why. The pain was awful, but there was something worse. Something he had forgotten that was killing him. Something that he desperately wanted to remember but when he tried…

by the time Mr. Fell woke up, he was in the back seat of what seemed to be some form of automobile. The engine was so loud he thought his ears would bleed, and the leather was worn, but something about the whole thing just felt comfortable to him, enough so that he allowed himself a hint of a smile before the whole day came back to him, forcing him upright so suddenly he almost gave himself a concussion on the roof. It didn’t escape his eyes that the moment he woke up, the man driving the car put one hand on his sidearm, although at least the other did not. Perhaps he would be more partial to explaining everything. “Excuse me… Mr. Smith? “ He started, remembering that the man had introduced himself as Sam Smith before and clenching his teeth as his friend stood on the gas. “Could I ask you who those men were?” apparently it was a difficult question, because the men took a while to answer. Long enough for the man to distastefully notice the blood on his clothes, and that they were far too ripped to even begin fixing. Still he tried, undoing his bowtie and attempting to retie it again -and giving up when he frightfully realised it had a bullet graze almost splitting it in half- and straightening his waistcoat, trying to ignore the dark splashes of red and black. The man was just getting to his coat when the men finally deigned to answer, and he forgot all about it. “They were demons.” The man named sam said. “I’m Sam, and this is Dean.” he introduced, although Dean did nothing but give a curt nod as his own mouth functioned on autopilot “Ah yes, pleased to meet you, my name is Anthony Fell.” Pleased to meet you. That had to be fairly high up on the list of lies he had spoken throughout his life. Fortunately he managed to stop himself from going to shake the mens hand, largely because he wasn’t actually sure he could still move. “Did you say… demons?” He asked, his voice squeaking a little at the end. “As in the fallen? Fiends? The inhabitants of hell?” Anthony was pretty sure he would of continued on forever if Sam hadn’t stopped him with a yes, and he wanted to shout out that the boys were insane but somewhere, in the depths of his mind it just felt true, and worse yet at the forefront of his mind Anthony could remember those dark, soulless eyes, as well as the flashes of light that erupted from the going me-demon’s bodies. “Where are we going? Are you two-“ he ran through all of the types of people he could think of that dealt with demons, and realised that it was a very short list and these people were most definitely not priests, especially since he was fairly sure he’d just seen the man in the drivers seat pull out a flask of something from somewhere. “Who are you two?” The gruff man, Dean spoke this time, tucking his flask into his pocket. “We’re hunters.” He answered, his eyes stuck on the empty road in front of them. “We’re the people who stop things like them from people like- well. People.” There was a short side glance, one that even he was able to get. Whoever these men were, they didn’t trust him. He didn’t blame them. Whenever he was around, strange things seemed to happen. It had been happening for years now, but he wasn’t going to tell shooty and stabby that. “We’re going somewhere safe.” Sam assured. He wasn’t so sure. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last one for tonight I think, it's 6am and I need to get some sleep ^__^
> 
> ... it's not at all because I wan't to leave you on an evil cliffhanger for a few hours.

The ‘safe space’ had turned out to be a half day’s drive away to an abandoned building in the middle of Lebanon Kansas, and as much as Anthony appreciated not having to sit in a car any longer he was’t quite sure he wanted to sit in there either, but his mind quickly changed when he got inside. The first thing he noticed was the books, and the second thing he noticed was just even more books, mostly with some rather disturbing titles that he wasn’t sure whether he should read or ignore. A sharp cough distracted Anthony, and the hand that had risen to hold one particular tome quite absentminded. Embarrassedly, he put it down. “I don’t suppose you have a shower and a change of clothes do you? it’s been a long day and I’m rather worn out.” 

Dean guided their new guest to the bathroom for a shower and made sure he had a clean change of clothes waiting for him, and sam decided to do some good old fashion thinking instead of the usual online research. At the end of the day (and it was very much the end of the day) there was a lot they didn’t know. They didn’t know what was causing the miracles, they didn’t know how in the hell the demons were related, and they really didn’t know who the hell Anthony Fell was. At the moment, all they could do was wait until they were all awake enough to talk. After a few minutes, Dean came back into the library, tossing his brother a bottle of beer and cracking one open himself, getting ready for a long night of him sleeping and sam doing research. “Seven demon’s aint normal.” he commented, taking a long gulp as his brother barely tossed him a long enough glance to nod. “No, it’s not.” Sam agreed. “Not for some minor miracles.” At this point he didn’t even know what to type. The ‘miracles’ in question were completely random, and didn’t really seem to have a purpose. Usually it was just miraculous escapes, a low death rate, but occasionally there were cases of broken objects being restored, injured people recovering overnight. It didn’t make much sense. “Are you sure it’s not angelic?” Dean asked for the ten thousandth time, and Sam just rubbed his head, fighting off another forming headache. “I guess? I’m honestly not sure, Dean.” He didn’t notice, but his brother’s eyes went cold for a moment, his jaw jutting out in anger and frustration over his brother’s pain. They sat in silence for a while, grabbing more beer when they ran out and each doing their own respective thing until their new friend came back, looking generally awkward in a pair of dark blue jeans and and a plain shirt. His hair was still damp, and it vaguely reminded him of how Dean had turned up at his bookshop, which reminded him of his bookshop, and made him realise that there were probably bullet holes in his bookshop. Sam and Dean were broken out of their reverie by a grown man wailing about books, tuning in on the conversation just in time to hear him shouting that his bookshop would be ruined, to which Sam threw a look of confusion. “Don’t you work at a library?” He asked, and Dean watched with interest at the micro-expression of pain that flitted across the man’s face, his sadness faltering for a moment. “Ah… right.” He muttered, his face confused. He probably wouldn’t have noticed it before, but it was clear to him now because he aw that expression every day on Sam. A headache. Dean grabbed a bottle of beer out of the cooler and tossed it the man’s way, noting thankfully that he actually caught it and grabbing another one for himself and sam too. Anthony just sort of stared at the bottle for a moment, sheepishly glancing the brother’s way. “I don’t suppose you have any wine do you?” He questioned, and although the boys didn’t dignify him with an answer they did have some questions. “Do you know why those demons attacked you?” Sam asked, closing his laptop and leaning across the table. Suddenly, Anthony felt as though the beautiful library he sat in had become an interrogation room. “I really swear I don’t.” He insisted, decided to take a sip of his beer, realising it was less terrible than expected. “I’ve never seen them before in m-“ Pausing, he actually took a moment to look back on that night, remembering the faces that had attacked him. “But tha- those were my friends!” He shouted, picturing the brutal expressions on his neighbours, his fellows faces. For a moment, there was silence. A brief time the brother’s gave him to collate his thoughts and… grieve, however for some reason Anthony felt as if he could hear… shouting? For a moment he thought he had finally lost it, but then Sam and Dean’s heads snapped up too, the two of them looking at each other in resignation before getting up from their seats. “Wait here.’ Dean commanded, pointing at his seat with what seemed like a slightly less intense glower than earlier. Nodding quietly, Anthony did as he was told, grabbing a random book off of the shelves and starting to read it voraciously as the two men took off down the hallway towards the source of the sounds, opening up the bunker’s dungeon to reveal a wide eyed, frantic Crowley. “Let me see him.” The demon… begged? Both brother’s embraced a general attitude of shock as they saw the king of hell scratch and claw at his restraints, trying desperately to get free. For a moment, they almost thought they saw tears in his eyes. “Please.” He whispered, his throat hoarse. “Please just let me see him. Let me out, **please**.” Suddenly, the brother’s heard footsteps, and they turned around to se a bewildered and alarmed Mr. Fell looking into the room. “What-What’s going on?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some idea's, and so this fic has gone from being like, maybe twenty chapters long to probably being more like thirty. Anyhow here's today's chapter!

It was remarkable, how quickly one became an addict to their addiction. The nature of the sensation was usually so subtle and pervading that by the time they even realised they were addicted, they were too far gone to be stopped. Aziraphale, was Crowley’s addiction. He was addicted to his kindness, his warmth. The silent conversations and looks that thousands of years of companionship could bring them. Maybe that was why the fake Aziraphale had shown up, giving him that same kindness and warmth, that same silent understanding, because his own brain knew that without it, he would probably die. The only question remaining to him, was why he had left. 

It had only been for moments, at first. A few minutes of silence interrupting the constant companionship. Crowley had spent so long pretending that the figment _didn’t_ exist, so a few small moments without him hadn’t seemed too peculiar. Then the minutes spread to hours, and then the hours to days. Vaguely, the demon remembered the term ‘playing hard to get.’ It was an old trick, but it worked. Every time the presence shuddered into existence Crowley’s eyes would drink him in, regaling him with stories and secrets and gossip, anything to get him to stay just a few minutes longer. In the end, the only thing that worked was the blood. The moment that stuff swept through his veins his angel would showing up, admonishing him and telling him off and all he could do was smile with glee, accepting the words thrown at him even if he didn’t really hear them. Every now and again, the demon would run out of ‘stock’, and the silence would drive him ever more insane than the last time. Even as he tried to pretend it didn’t, even as he tried to pretend that every time he heard that bunker door open he didn’t feel just the slightest hint of glee that at least he would be able to talk to someone real, someone who didn’t flood him with any more shame. 

They hadn’t been gone very long this time, just a day or two. When hunts lasted this wrong either something very wrong, very surprising or very boring happened. Sometimes one of the boys came back more bruised up than should be humanly possible (not that Crowley was sure the men _were_ human at this point) and sometimes it turned out that the ‘killer vampire’ was just a bad joke. From the sound of footsteps this time, it was probably the middle one. Three of them, and three voices too. Too muffled to recognise or understand, but one of them had a decidedly British cadence that almost made him smile. Two sets of footsteps came down his corridor, but neither of them spoke enough for Crowley to know who was actually there, and as much as Crowley could hear a bit of sound (the boys liked to let just a little bit in, so they could manipulate him with the odd conversation, or ‘ask’ him for help without actually asking him at all) he couldn’t see through walls, so he was resigned to waiting with his usually cocky grin. The angel had gone away when he heard the door close, and already Crowley was bored. 

He wasn’t bored for long. Whilst he might have been unable to identify a quiet voice in his little cell, he was more than able of identifying a shout, especially when it was _that_ shout. That familiar upset tone, filled with a childish frustration. It was the tone of voice he usually heard right before having so go half way around the world to fetch a slice of cake, a had to give up one of his favourite bottles of wine. That was his angels voice. Complaining about his stupid bookshop, one of the few buildings Crowley had managed to keep safe from hell and the winchesters and everything else one earth. He really hoped those idiots hadn’t destroyed it. The voices were too quiet to understand again now, but it didn’t matter anyway because Crowley was screaming too loud to hear a hurricane. Trust it be those two who found his angel before all the forces in hell did, and if they would just _open the door_ , if he could just _see him_ , even once. As Crowley screamed he pulled at his chains, willing to lose both of his arms if he could just get out of them. When the door finally slid open, he must have looked a sorry sight. He really didn’t care. 

“Let me out.” He begged, his voice quiet and pleading. Crowley could see the surprise in the Winchester’s eyes, but they were eat the bottom of his list at the moment. No matter how hard he looked, the Winchester’s had nobody behind them, so Crowley debated between giving in to their every demand for a quick walkabout or going full on ballistic in order to get the angel’s attention. Fortunately, he didn’t have to do either. Faintly, Crowley heard the sound of footsteps approaching his little abode, and from behind the two boys **he** stepped out. For a moment, Crowley wasn’t sure it was him. The angel wore a pair of dark jeans and a light t-shirt, his damp hair plastered to his head. It was probably the least amount of layers he’d ever worn in over six-thousand years, and worst of all Crowley could see little cuts and scrapes all over his hands and neck, there was even a bruise on his wrist that was the most offending shade of purple he had ever seen. A familiar feeling came back to Crowley then, a very familiar one in deed. Rage. 

“Wha-What’s going on?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley’s heart almost stopped. No recognition, nothing. He could still sense Aziraphale’s grace but… but nothing. There was nothing of his angel left. 

“What did you do to him?” He found himself whispering, that rage building up inside of him, his eyes stinging to hold back the tears. When the two brothers didn’t respond, the quiet whispers quickly changed into a full on scream. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Aziraphale, even the boys flinched, and Crowley did what he always did with his rage when he could kill or explode something, he moved it aside for later, when he could. “I’m sorry.” He announced, trying to soothe the party of three down before one of the Winchester’s punched him in the face, probably Dean. “I got a bit ahead of myself.”

Speaking of the squirrel, it was Dean who finally responded first, the angel’s face blank as if he was still processing. Probably was the poor bastard. “What do you wan’t, Crowley.” He growled, still not catching on to the situation at hand. Sam on the other hand was throwing a confused look between him and the angel, the little cogs turning in his brain. “Do you two… know each other?” he guessed. 

“Not at all.”

“All my life.” 

The answers couldn’t have been more different, and the boys gave him a look of doubt, but they still moved their hands towards their knives at the thought that the angel might not be as human as he seemed. It was Crowley’s turn to growl, and he did. “Don’t you dare.” 

“Wh-who are you?” The angel asked, and Crowley lost interest in the boys immediately. 

“My name is Anthony. Anthony Crowley, and you?”

“Anthony.” The human wearing his friend’s face murmured, shifting about awkwardly. “Anthony Fell.” Crowley felt his fingers curl, nails digging into the wood on his chair as it creaked and groaned under the pressure, the boys putting distance between the two of them like the annoyances they were as ‘Anthony’ shuffled awkwardly. There was a certain amount of joy and pride in the fact that Aziraphale had used that name, even subconsciously, but it was vastly outmeasured by the fact that the angel didn’t understand it’s context. The only thing keeping Crowley from sobbing was probably the fact that he didn’t look afraid yet. “What a coincidence!” Crowley grinned, trying to equip himself with his most trust-worthy, endearing smile. Dean pulled out his demon killing knife, but in Crowley’s defence it _had_ been a while. 

“Az- Anthony.” Crowley started, laying his hands on the table both to stop himself from reaching his his friend and also to show he wasn’t going to spontaneously attack. “Have the boy’s told you what a demon is?” There _was_ fear, this time. Enough of it to make Crowley briefly consider a thorough ‘culling’ of hell when he got back. The angel… no, the human nodded. “I was attacked.” he stated, like it was a fact on a piece of paper, like a hadn’t quite come to terms with it yet. Aziraphale took a step back and Crowley saw another flash of purple under his shirt. A very thorough culling indeed. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to be afraid?” He had to ask, first. To prepare him. If his angel looked at him with that kind of fear, he didn’t know what he would do. The winchesters were practically bristling at this point, wanting to interrupt but not sure how. They could tell he had answers, and that was enough for them to not care about putting his angel in danger, even if he never would be in danger around him. Aziraphale, Anthony nodded. “I promise you, Mr. Crowley.” Mr. Crowley. Mister. Aziraphale rarely called him Mister. Still It’ll have to do. “I am a demon.” A flash of panic, but the fellow was too good-natured not to stick to his promise and gave a stoic nod, fighting off his instincts to run. “But I will never hurt you.” Crowley continued, pushing on now because he could tell the boys were losing patience. “I swear I will never, ever hurt you. Okay?” another nod, and Sam was sporting his conflicted, puppy dog look now. Dean on the other had slammed his knife into the table a few inches away from Crowley’s wrist, close enough for the demon to lazily shift his gaze on over to him, even if it did flicker back to his angel every few seconds. “Enough, Crowley. What did you do? Why were there demons going after this guy?” 

“Ah… that one’s actually my fault.” Sheepishly, Crowley worked out the kinks in his neck, feeling guilty about the fact that every demon on earth probably knew how important his angel is to him, if not why. “I sent them to look for him, before you um. locked me up.” There was the clanking of chains as Crowley raised his wrists, showing off the magical metal attached to them. 

“Can you call them off?”

“Well that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether they’re looking for him for me or for Abandon, you idiot.” He snapped, feeling genuinely stressed over the idea of Aziraphale getting hurt because of him. The giraffe actually looked a little injured himself, but there was something in the angel’s eyes that Crowley had never seen before, or at least something he couldn’t recognise. “He’ll have to stay with you.” The demon decided. “Until you deal with this whole shitshow, because now that they know he exists they’re never going to give him up.” Not after everything he’d put them through looking for him. Reluctantly, the boys agreed. Mostly because they still didn’t know the who, what or why of everything that was going on. “One last question, Crowley.” Dean started, and the demon prepared himself for a few more days of darkness ahead of him before they questioned him again, just to soften him up. “Who the hell is this guy?” 

“He’s m- He’s just some human who I made a deal with, that’s all.” 

Quietly, Crowley heard Aziraphale whisper behind him. “Well now that’s just insulting, Dear.” 


	14. Chapter 14

“So Crowley is a lying son of a bitch.”

“Oh yeah definitely.” 

Neither of the boys had been fooled by Crowley’s lie, since no matter what he believed they weren’t actually complete idiots. Quietly, Mr. Fell sat down at the kitchen table between them, digging into one of Dean’s pies with gusto. It had been a bonding point, but the man had refused to talk since they left the dungeon and once the pie break was over, it was time to talk answers, from both sides. 

“You keep a demon… it your basement.” Anthony stated, his tone flat and mildly disapproving as he tried to figure out exactly what kind of situation he had walked into. The man called Dean somehow managed to throw on what he must have thought to be a winning smile. 

“Well yeah, but Crowley’s a dick.” He explained, like that was enough to explain everything. It wasn’t. 

“Um, Crowley has killed a lot of people, Anthony.” Sam interrupted, trying to salvage the situation. “he’s locked down there to keep people safe.“ Anthony tried to imagine the man in that… dungeon killing people, spilling blood with that same look of malicious glee as the monsters in his library but for some reason he couldn’t. He’d already seen the anger in that demon, knew what he was capable of from the two young men, but for some reason when he tried to reconcile the two concepts in his brain he just…

“Do you have anything other than alcohol to drink?” The librarian asked, rubbing his aching head. “I think all of the beer has given me a headache.” 

Sam tossed him something green-looking, and Anthony took it gratefully, twisting off the cap and downing half of the drink in one go, too focused on the almost vile taste to notice the sharp look Dean had been giving him. 

“Are you sure you’ve never met him?” 

“Who, Crowley?” Anthony asked as his put the lid back on his drink, pronouncing the word more like ‘crow’ the bird than the brothers did, but they just put that down to the accent. “Not once! Not in my life! Those- those demons, at the library. They were my friends, people from my town, but I’d never met **him**. I swear.”

“And you’ve never made a deal with a demon before?”

“Of-of course not! I wouldn’t even know how!” Not strictly true, since from the plethora of books Anthony had read he could piece together a vague picture, but the boys didn’t need to know that, since he’d never actually done anything. 

“What were your parent’s names?” Dean asked, the conversation becoming increasingly aggressive and confusing. 

“A-Alistair and… and…” the headache was getting worse now, pulsing and aching so bad that he could feel his heartbeat it his skull. “Donna. Alastair and Donna Fell.” 

“Who was your best friend as a child? Where did you like to play? What was your teachers name in second grade?” 

“Henry, we played… we played…” His mind was splitting at the seams, it had been so long since Anthony had even thought of his childhood that it almost seemed like the memories weren’t there. “I- I don’t.. know.” There had been a sort of sticky feeling in his chest, ever since Deans questions began. When he tried to answer, it was that which came out instead. With a look of surprise, Sam caught the man just as he collapsed, the night’s beer and pie being spilled upon the giant’s shirt as he let out a grimace. “That.” Dean remarked. “Is some freaky voodoo.” 


	15. Not A Chapter (I'm sick)

Hello everyone! Sorry to say I'm a little sick., nothing too terrible it's just that I may not be able to release a chapter for the next few days, and thought I'd send a warning.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling much better ^__^ Thank you everyone!

The boy’s put (tossed) Anthony to bed before going to do the same themselves, and Sam wasn’t an idiot. He knew his brother well enough to know when the man had an idea brewing. “What are you thinking, Dean?” He asked, watching as the hunter snapped out of his reverie to -briefly- look his brother in the face. It was something Dead didn’t do often, at the moment. Like he was afraid of what he would see. Sam’s head pulsed, and he acknowledged the sheer amount of time it had been since he last slept. The boys were exhausted. It had been over a day, almost two and they both needed rest, even if it wasn’t particularly a record. 

“Remember just before Cass went Crazy? Lost his memory and went by Emmanuel?” Finally, Dean spoke. Staring holes into the walls as he thought, his expression serious. 

“And got marred? Yeah, why?” Dean winced, then half-laughed, then continued on explaining.

“Well what if the same thing happened to this guy, hey?” The elder winchester gave off a little hint of a smug grin, trying to override the memory of Castiel being married with a decent idea.

“So what? He’s an angel? Besides this guy seems to have actual memories not amnesia, Dean” Semi-decent idea.

“Well he’s not **that** much of a dick, and yeah… but it could be something similar, right?” an idea.

“We could always asked Cass.” 

“No. Absolutely not! out of the question.”

“Why, Dean?” _Because you’re coming apart at the seams, and if Cass comes back the piece of shit angel that’s band-aiding you together might leave._

“I just don’t want to worry him. Come on, Sammy! Research! Yay!” His brother shot him a dead glance. One that spoke of quite possible fratricide.

“In the morning.”Dean didn’t miss the exhaustion on his brother’s face, the one that not even a million car-ride-home-naps could solve. 

“In the morning, Sammy.” Kid was too tired to even argue at the nickname. 

\- 

Crowley sat in silence, whilst Aziraphale chattered nonsense as he stood beside his chair. He hadn’t been able to stop smiling, not since he saw his angel. Banged up, a little broken but **his angel**. “Why are you still here?” he snapped at the face behind him, who tutted disappointedly. With the real Aziraphale back, Crowley had just assumed that the fake would leave, realise the game was up and evacuate the premises. The moment he had seen **his** angel, any good feelings he had had towards the fake had evacuate. He was grateful of course, for the company, but Crowley had killed many people he was ‘grateful’ to before. 

“Why are you so sure this one is real?” It questioned, doing what it did best. “This one could be a fake too.” Get into his head. The thought of it sent cold shivers up his spine, because he’d been so **sure.** Just like he had been so sure when he first felt the fake aziraphale’s presence. What if this one just turned out to be another replica? Another fake sent to ruin his mind? What if it was just another scheme, a trick of the boys to break him?

“You really don’t give up, do you?” He snarked, trying his best to give off the image of confidence, so that the piranhas wouldn’t sense the blood in the water. Fake Aziraphale sighed, throwing him that rare look of unilateral love that made him feel sick to his core. “I’m only trying to help you, Crowley.” It offered, voice as sweet as honey. 

“A liar knows a liar, figment.” Crowley hissed, seethed at the creature. It had been a long, long time since the demon was so openly hostile, and Fauxiraphale flinched. When Crowley blinked the figment was gone, and he was alone in the room again. The one thing he had ben looking for, the one thing he had lived for was almost in his hands. 

So why did he feel so lost?


	17. Blueberrie

Anthony woke up chipper, in a high-on-medication sort of way. The Winchesters had woken up to the smell of bacon, pancakes and a handful of other breakfast articles, which only meant that the elder of the two brothers was physically unable to resist the temptation, digging in with glee as Sam sighed, feeling tired already. It only took a few questions for him to realise that the man had forgotten the end of yesterday’s conversation, from just before he hit the floor in a way Sam hadn’t seen since Harvard. When he asked, the only answer Sam got was that Anthony ‘must have been very tired, to pass out like that’, with a cavalier face and an offer of whipped cream and extra blueberry’s, the latter of which Sam was sure they didn’t even have in the bunker at the moment, but there was plenty in the fridge. Without turning around, Anthony let out a sigh. “You really shouldn’t eat with your mouth open, Dean!” He sung, and the hardened hunter blushed embarrassedly, looking down at his plate and chewing with more subdued bites. Briefly, Sam wondered if he had entered some sort of bizzaro universe. “Dean!” he hissed, trying to wake him out of whatever one earth was happening, but his brother just shrugged. 

“Wh-“ Dean stopped talking at a warning glare from Anthony (who was presently taking off his apron to dig into his own meal), swallowing his pancake-bacon-horror before continuing to talk. “It’s free food, Sammy.” He explained, stuffing enough bacon in his mouth to look like a chipmunk. “And besides it’s _good_.” Briefly, Sam wondered if hell could have replaced fifty years of brutal torture with a hearty breakfast, but as usual the thought of his brother suffering through that kind of torture twisted his stomach. Whatever desire he _had_ had to eat Anthony’s breakfast left him suddenly. “I’m not hungry.” he concluded, through mildly gritted teeth. Dean shrugged, taking the plate for himself and Anthony had closed his eyed, savouring the taste of pancakes and syrup and whatever else on earth was in that pancake. Probably turducken. Part of Sam didn’t trust Anthony Fell at all, but he had to admit that the man seemed fairly harmless, even kind. It was a rare experience in their lives. 

Whilst those two ate, Sam thought. It would be no good to question Anthony again, not if he was just going to pass out again, so the only proper avenue of investigation came from -and he dreaded to say it- Crowley. The demon obviously knew more than he was letting on, more so than usual, and there had been something in his eyes when he looked at Anthony that Sam had never seen before. Something almost… soft. Excusing himself from the table, Sam opened up the bunker dungeon and gave Crowley an uncomfortable nod, settling himself arms crossed against the wall. 

“Hello, Moose.” The demon nodded, looking calmer than Sam had seen him in a long time. His voice was softer than usual, and for once it wasn’t filled with the usual smug mockery. “Crowley.” Sam spoke, returning the greeting. 

There was some silence, then. Neither side particularly willing to speak or ask for help, both of them obviously needing something. Surprisingly it was Crowley who spoke first. “Do I smell pancakes?” He asked, lifting his nose in the air like a bloodhound who had caught a scent, visibly swallowing at it. To Sam the view was almost comical, and despite himself he laughed. “Yeah.” He chuckled, shuffling his posture about a little, relaxing his shoulders as he no longer seemed two seconds away from a fight. “Anthony made them.” At the mention of the librarian, Sam watched Crowley’s face light up, a faint smile playing it’s way across his face as he leaned forward in his seat.

“With bacon?” the demon asked, leading Sam to nod affirmative. “And blueberries?” it was random, but interesting. Even Sam could smell the bacon, but the blueberries? That wasn’t something you could tell just by smell. “Yeah… how did you know?” No answer. Crowley’s eyes were far away now, looking off at something Sam couldn’t see. “Wan’t some, Crowley?” The hunter joked, not expecting the demon to snap back to attention like he’d been offered the keys to heaven. “Can I?” He asked, and for a moment Sam thought he heard the demon’s voice break. 

“No.” Crowley watched Sam leave, shutting the secret door behind him with a bang. The demon spent the next two days in a haze, his brain stuck on the thought of his Aziraphale, humming about in his kitchen, making him blueberry pancakes for breakfast. When Sam snuck a peek at him through the crack in the door way, he was wiping tears from his eyes. 


	18. Chapter 18

Crowley didn’t get his pancakes but he did get a regular cake, and really that was just as good. It had been a few weeks since the boys had ‘invited’ Anthony into the bunker, and all attempts at interrogation had failed, on both parties. The librarian had spent multiple days unconscious from what Dean and Sam had come to call short circuits and well, there’s only so many time you can hurt a demon before you realised he wasn’t going to speak. Resigned to their fate of having to wait for more information (since Dean absolutely refused to get Castiel’s help, and neither of them really wanted to put the poor Anthony through any _more_ suffering) the brothers went back to doing what they did best. 

“There’s enough food in the fridge to last you through the apocalypse, so just don’t leave unless you need to.” Reminded Sam, for the tenth time that morning. They’d made the run of showing Anthony around the nearby town days ago, not that it would be much help after learning the man didn’t actually know how to drive there. Nodding graciously along whilst the giant of a man spoke, Anthony waited for them to leave before racing wildly to the library, where he spent most of his days from what Crowley could tell. It didn’t surprise him that not even heaven could take his love of literature away from him, as well as his love of food. It seemed that this Aziraphale actually needed to eat, and not just for the pleasure of it. It also seemed that the man took great pride in the process, serving up round upon round of tantalising food for Crowley to not-taste, not that he minded much. The demon had never really been a big fan of eating, really. He wasn’t against it mind, but it usually just wasn’t worth the bother. What he really enjoyed was the light in his angel’s eyes as he dug into a dish. No guilt, no accusations, just the two of them and a slice of cake and a calm afternoon, feeding ducks and being almost human.

There was a knock on his cell door which was laughable really, and there was only one person in the bunker that could be so polite, to the point that nothing could beat it out of him. “Come in, Az- Anthony!” Crowley called, his voice especially chipper for the occasion. His angel had visited him on occasion of course, but never unsupervised, never alone. It had barely been a few hours since the Winchester’s left, and Crowley was curious as to whether this was a random visit or a premeditated one. “What can I do for you?” 

“A-ah yes. Well…” Aziraphale, Anthony, whatever his name was now fumbled with his words, sliding open the door with one hand and a sheepish look. In the other, free hand was a light, pink, frosted slice of cake, still warm from the oven too. “I was just wondering if you were hungry.” he muttered, and Crowley grinned an almost wolf-like grin. 

“Starving.”

The cake was delicious. Probably. Honestly he couldn’t really taste it. He’d convinced Aziraphale to help himself to another slice of cake and had fallen to the old habit of watching him eat and listening to him speak, being regaled with inane stories -more inane than usual, this time- about Milford and it’s apparently salacious occupants. Every now and again, Crowley would drop in his own stories. Tidbits he’d been keeping around for whenever the real Aziraphale returned. They were a bit dated perhaps, but the supernatural ghost stories were fascinating to Aziraphale, and it was hours before they stopped speaking. Crowley could have gone on for days, weeks maybe, but the human Aziraphale in front of him was tired, and he needed sleep. “You should get some rest.” He muttered, picking a cake crumb off of his desk and plopping it onto the long empty plate. “We can always talk tomorrow.” 

Half slumped in his chair (he’d brought it in from the library), the angel opened his half closed eyes with a snap, suddenly realising the situation he’d put himself into. “Thank you.” he began, without even realising it, and once he’d said it he was too far gone to take it back. “I just thought you might need some food. Do you need to eat?” The question was half embarrassment, half curiosity.

“Of course! Would I lie?” Crowley asked, still smiling that wolfish grin. The lie didn’t even weigh on him, not really. Between two little words and his angel, he would always pick his angel. Even if those words were to praise god or hail satan, it didn’t really matter to him. 

“You’re a demon.” His angel whispered, and it was a sentence so very familiar, but also different. It used to be almost endearing, before. A little joke between them that neither really put too much weight on. Now it was a low, quiet murmur. Unsure and afraid. Afraid of him. It froze Crowley, for a moment. A reminder that not everything was as perfect as it seemed. “Don’t all demons lie?”

“You’re right.” he hissed, his tone artificially flat. “And I am a demon.” He always had been a demon, and Aziraphale had always been an angel. It had never bothered them before, not really, not badly, but now it was like a sharp, horrible lump in his throat because he job the feeling that whenever his angel looked at him, he’d see them. The demon’s that attacked him. The demon’s he’d sent.

“I’m sorry.” Anthony confessed, seeing… something on Crowley’s face. “I’d better go.” And so he did, rushing out with a stiff upper lip and his chair before either of them could say anything more they would regret. The boy’s were back from their hunt the next day, and Crowley didn’t know whether his offer for another visit would have been accepted. He doubted it. Quietly, the fake Aziraphale laughed in the corner Crowley had delegated him to, just for a moment. “Are you happy now?” It asked, daring him to lie to it as he had to _him_. 

“Yes.” Whether it was the truth or a lie, both of them knew.


	19. Chapter 19

For as long as Sam knew, his brother had had the unfortunate habit of bursting into the room he was in and the most misfortunate of times. Not only had it ruined a few key dating moments, but it also had the annoying effect of ruining his research. 

“Alright that’s it, something is weird.” Dean shouted, his voice muffled and disfigured by the food in his mouth. The hunter had wandered into the library with yet another slice of pie from what was seemingly Anthony’s infinite stash, waving his fork in the air and pointing it at his brother like it was a deadly weapon instead of a kitchen utensil. “It’s weird and it’s freaking me out.” At this point, Sam didn't even bother crying out at the interruption of his work, and just because his brother was annoying, doesn’t mean he was wrong. Sam had felt it too, not that he could tell exactly what ‘it’ was, but every time they got back to the bunker it seemed to get worse, like the smell of blood in the air. Maybe it was just peace. Ever since Anthony turned up Crowley had stopped making trouble, and even though they had a lot going on as usual, there hadn’t been a big case in a while. Whatever it was, if Dean was eating pie then it probably wasn’t a big deal, just an uncomfortable feeling of something being… different. Out of place. 

“And then there’s _that_ ” Exclaimed Dean, his voice finally clear after he swallowed his… entire pie? Holding down the usual disbelief at his brother’s eating speed, Sam tried to remind himself what Dean was talking about. It wasn’t difficult, since it had given them a heart attack the first time it happened. They’d come back from a banshee hunt (Sam **still** had a headache from it’s scream) to find Crowley’s cage door had been opened. They weren’t idiots, and when they’d allowed Anthony to stay in the bunker they’d set precautions, watched over him for a while to make sure he was what he seemed. Of all of the things the men of letters had gathered over the years, Crowley wasn’t even in the top ten objects of importance (a sad truth, for the lord of hell), and they had to know everything was safe, so they’d upped the wardings to the extreme, and Sam had put a simple warning spell on Crowley’s cell that told him whether it had been opened. Considering that the spell had been the reason he almost got killed by a banshee that hunt (turns out a magical alert can be very distracting in the middle of a fight) they’d probably settle for a feather over the door, next time. Either way the next time it happened they were ready with a twenty four hour camera (with audio), but the result was… interesting. Crowley, big bad lord of hell, was eating pasta. With a smile. For a moment, Sam genuinely believed he’d died and gone… well, somewhere. That or a Djinn had got him. Neither of the brothers really believed it, but the two men spent hours talking about literally nothing of importance, stories about Anthony’s hometown, books he’d read, books _Crowley_ had read that were far less mundane, a little brief overview of life in hell that had been impressively PG’d, presumably so as not to scare the human. Worried the conversation had been a ruse to divert their attention, both boys had watched until the end, but other than a few brief historical arguments and something about the french revolution there was nothing. Anthony left in one piece taking his plates and his chair with him, and Crowley waved him goodbye. Not a single deal was made, nothing suspicious. The mundanity of it was frightening, and the worst thing is it didn’t end. It was the same thing, every time. Different meals, different stories, but the same kind of conversations, the same amiable atmosphere. The entire thing was uncomfortable to watch because there was no reason to stop it (and Dean’s stern warnings to Crowley had apparently gone unheeded), since nobody was actually doing anything wrong, but seeing Crowley almost… nice was like seeing a vampire in love. They were usually planning to go straight for the throat. "Yeah." Sam let out a breathy, bark of a laugh, moving his eyes away from his screen for a moment to agree with his brother. "There is that. 


End file.
